


Sway

by prairiecrow



Series: Gumshoe AU [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Dinner, First Time, Flirting, Gangsters, Luxury, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian Bashir is both shaken and stirred — again — by a mysterious Cardassian crime lord who seems to have set his sights on making Julian his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Set in the 1920's DS9 "Gumshoe AU" that started on Tumblr by airandangels and blossommorphine, in which Garak is a gangster and Julian is a brash young doctor who's set up a public health clinic on Skid Row. 2) A sequel/continuation of "Doubt", which is quite short and should be read first.

As he allowed the light pressure of Garak's hand on his back to guide him to the darkened porch along the south side of the country house, Julian Bashir wondered if he'd temporarily taken leave of his own senses. Just what the hell did he think he was doing, abandoning the safety provided by the eyes of his fellow party-goers to be alone with a known criminal? And alone they were, because as soon as they entered the shadowed enclosed space Julian could see that there were, quite improbably, no other people enjoying the warm night air, faintly scented with the perfume of innumerable flowers, that wafted in through the numerous tall screened windows. The only real light came from the windows leading back into the house; there was a thin sliver of a moon visible through the trees, but it scarcely produced enough light to make a difference to Human eyes.  
  
Garak turned toward the far end of the porch where a long seat stood against the wall, speaking in a low friendly voice: "It's a lovely night, wouldn't you agree? And so refreshingly quiet after such a noisy whirl of gaiety!"  
  
"Which is quite profitable for you, if I'm not mistaken," Julian countered, reminding himself that this man had barged into his bathroom uninvited late at night and therefore could have no reasonable expectation of courtesy from him.  
  
The comment didn't seem to anger the crime lord; rather, it appeared to amuse him. "My dear Doctor, I have no idea what you're talking about," he demurred, as innocently as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and reaching the seat he settled himself upon it with an oddly economical grace, adjusting his dress pants with a quick tug on the knees.  
  
"Oh, I think you do." He moved to take his seat a couple of feet away on the Cardassian's left, his mouth open to continue his accusation — and found himself off-balance as the bench tried to slide out from under him. Garak had sat down on it so smoothly that Julian hadn't even realized it was a porch swing.  
  
At once the gangster reached out to lay a hand on Julian's upper right arm, steadying him. "Be careful, Doctor!"  
  
"I'm —" He drew a deep breath and regained his balance, ending up sitting a good deal closer to Garak than he'd intended, but he wasn't rude enough to pull away now. "I'm fine, thank you."  
  
"You're sure?" He could see those pale eyes studying him through the darkness, and doubtless seeing him quite clearly: Cardassian night vision was rumoured to be superb.  
  
"Quite."  
  
Garak nodded and removed his hand, but his left arm remained casually extended along the back of the seat as he settled down, causing the swing to sway slightly, and crossed his right leg neatly over his left. To Julian it felt as if that arm, so close to his shoulder, vibrated with its own subtle electricity. "I do apologize — I should have warned you."  
  
Julian frowned at him, suddenly convinced that Garak had done it all perfectly deliberately. "What do you want, Mister Garak?"  
  
A flash of white teeth in the gloom, looking very sharp. "Oh, it's just Garak — plain, simple Garak."  
  
"That's not what I've heard other people call you."  
  
"Other people who work for me, or who want something from me — and who haven't patched up my wounded arm in the middle of the night." The smile lingered. "While I'd appreciate it if you employed the honorific while we're in company, when we're alone I prefer a certain… informality from you."  
  
"I see. And do others enjoy a similar privilege?"  
  
"Does it matter?" His voice was suddenly a caress, raising gooseflesh along Julian's arms and up the back of his neck. He felt himself blush, prayed that Cardassian vision couldn't pick up on it in the dimness, and went on the attack again.  
  
"You haven't answered my question." He gazed into those amused blue eyes sternly, although he suspected that trying to dominate a kingpin of Garak's magnitude was an exercise in futility. "What  _do_  you want with me? Have you acquired some new bullet wounds that need tending?"  
  
To his surprise Garak laughed, the sound brief but unexpectedly bright. "I'm afraid not. I'm not in the habit of getting shot, my late-night visit to your apartment notwithstanding. No," and he fixed Julian with a look that Julian hesitated to describe as 'fond' but really couldn't come up with a better descriptor for, "all I'm seeking this evening is the pleasure of your company."  
  
"I'm flattered that you found my repartee over your stitches sufficiently witty to merit making my further acquaintance," he quipped, fairly sure what this was all about and trying desperately to think of the best way to tell this very dangerous man that he didn't fancy men and wasn't interested in permitting the sort of 'acquaintance' Garak seemed to have in mind. _Even if I really_ didn't _mind how delighted he looked when he saw me spring out of that bath…_  
  
But the Cardassian's smile in response was teasingly attractive in a way that would make a stronger man than Julian Bashir waver in his resolve. "Oh, rest assured that I haven't been able to get it out of my mind," he purred, and Julian was amazed to feel a chill of excitement chase over every inch of his skin. "You're a man who, once seen, is very difficult to forget — but I'm sure you've heard that many times before. Shall I set my sights on saying something you might find more memorable than the standard cliches?"  
  
Julian nodded cautiously. "If you like," he said, trying his best to sound nonchalant and a little bored at the prospect of being flattered, even though the chill was lingering and setting anticipatory fire to every nerve ending. He told himself he wasn't feeling anything special, but he'd never been very good at lying, even to himself.  
  
Garak's smile widened — Julian realized he hadn't been on the receiving end of its full charming power until this moment, and by God, it was stunning — and he leaned slightly closer in a conspiratorial manner, his voice falling to a dovelike murmur: "You wear the sheen of water like the finest silk, in a way that renders the most beautifully crafted clothing utterly superfluous."  
  
The combination of tone of voice, suggestive reference, and the fact that here was a man who actually knew what the word "superfluous" meant made Julian feel like he was melting, touched by flame and rendered both receptive and pliant: a condition no less powerful for being a type of arousal he'd never experienced before, at least not as the one subjected to its effects. "Ah," he said, wondering where all his clever defiant words had gone, "well, that's… certainly not something anyone's ever said to me before."  
  
"And it has the virtue of being perfectly true," Garak assured him. Julian was suddenly aware of a new scent mingled with that of that flowers beneath the porch's windows: barely present, musky but pleasant, a little like clean leather. Garak's skin, perhaps? That thought, which brought with it a surprisingly sharp mental image of greyness laid bare for Julian's hands and the fascinating texture of hidden scales, made him break out in a light sweat. "What it doesn't address, however, is the compelling power of your eyes — they're really quite remarkable." His smile grew cunning, revealing that thin edge of sharp white teeth again and conveying a quality of heat that went right through Julian's defences of morality and decency and common sense like they weren't even there. "Believe it or not, they were the first thing I noticed about you, even before the delicious caramel colour of your skin or the perfect configuration of your form. Yes," a soft reptilian hiss as he hooded his own eyes and studied Julian's face, "I must concede that everything about you is really quite… magnetic."  
  
Those unblinking blue eyes were mere inches away now, regarding Julian with a combination of subtle humour and smouldering interest that warmed him down to his toes. When had Garak gotten so close? Like a snake, Julian realized, he'd wended ever nearer with small subtle movements — and now, with the awareness of his proximity, the tension that had been winding itself ever tighter in his core since Garak had first approached him in the house became suddenly unbearable. And it was so abruptly, clearly sexual that Julian's body made the decision for him, closing his eyes and leaning in blindly. As the dime store romance novels were so fond of saying, 'their lips met'…  
  
… in a kiss light and almost chaste, but the unexpected burn of it — electric, sweet, dark — went through Julian like a bolt of lightning. The contact was all too brief before Garak drew back and Julian, opening his eyes slightly, could see through the haze of his own lashes that the Cardassian was studying him intently. Apparently what he saw satisfied him somehow, because Garak moved in again to take another kiss, his cool grey mouth lingering this time, sly and gliding, and Julian wasn't sure if his own sudden dizziness was from the sway of the swing or his own head spinning.  _Definitely a little of both_ , he decided as he parted his lips, inviting deeper contact, and sighed as a broad hand came to rest on the inside of his right knee, sending a pulse of heat to his penis that made it lift and lengthen inside his dress pants in utter defiance of the fact that he'd been a ladies man his entire adult life and…  
  
… and he had no idea where to put his hands or what to do with them. The right one ended up curved around Garak's waist between his jacket and the back of the swing, the left resting on his right shoulder — awkwardly, but securely at least, and as the kisses deepened, thorough and unhurried, Julian quickly stopped being concerned about them. He had too much else to think about, all of it new and all of it thrilling, and all of it completely upending what he'd been able to cling to of his sexual self-image since that cold March night when another man had looked at him with unabashed desire and he'd found himself flushed and nervous and… and frankly a little excited.  
  
 _So this is it,_  he thought as Garak's left arm curved around his shoulders and drew him even closer to be kissed and nuzzled and smiled over:  _I'm an invert, an Urning, a homosexual — and all this time, I had no idea. Why the hell didn't I feel anything when Victor Cooper tried to chat me up in second year university? He was a devilishly handsome fellow, and Garak is…_  
  
And then he felt guilty about having uncharitable thoughts concerning the man he was currently necking with — but really, Garak  _wasn't_  handsome, or at least he lacked the chiselled good looks that Cooper had been able to boast. Logically speaking, if he'd been an invert all this time Julian should have leapt at the chance to jump into bed with his fellow student, but Cooper had left him utterly cold and here he was instead, trying not to make too-loud sounds of pleasure as Garak's lips found their way to his neck, tilting his head to one side to grant easier access and clutching at the Cardassian to pull him even closer. Rationally it made no sense whatsoever — but neither had Garak's unexpected intrusion into his bathroom with a bullet wound in his arm, or his courteous invitation to retire to this porch for a quiet tete-a-tete, so really it was all of a piece… at least, that was as far as Julian's thought processes could take him under the circumstances, with the full force of a crime lord's charisma acting upon him like the pull of a dark and inexorable star.  
  
He didn't need to hear any further words of admiration or praises of his beauty: Garak's touch communicated it all perfectly clearly, the cool pressure of his confident hands and each caress of his lips and thrilling nip of his teeth on Julian's throat filling him with growing excitement both exultant and fearful, because each step in that direction meant leaving a little more of himself behind. When he couldn't take it anymore and turned his head, seeking another kiss, Garak gave it to him without hesitation, slipping in a flicker of tongue that made Julian whimper low in his throat and angle his head, opening his mouth for more.  
  
" _Good_  boy," Garak whispered, his hand on Julian's knee starting to move up his leg, the pressure of his fingers tracing lines of fire along Julian's inner thigh as he administered a penetrating kiss that left Julian breathless — and hungry for more, much much more.   
  
"We can't." But they were the last murmured protest of a man who was drowning, his limbs sheathed in heat, his most secret flesh fully erect and almost painfully throbbing. "We shouldn't…"  
  
Garak bit Julian's lower lip, then soothed the sting with a slow stroke of his tongue. "And who, pray tell, is going to stop us?" he whispered, paused as if to give Julian time to mount a reasoned rejoinder, then smiled wickedly, gazing deeply into his dazed hazel eyes. "I'm accustomed to achieving my desires, my dear, especially when they involve such an unrepentantly beautiful man who's come to me so willingly." He removed his hand from Julian's thigh and brought it to his face, running teasingly light fingertips from his earlobe down the line of his jaw, then cupping the curve of his neck while pressing another slow savouring kiss to his yearning mouth. "So very,  _very_  willingly… you know, the moment I saw you lying in that bathtub, so slender and so sweet, I said to myself —"  
  
His head came up, turning to his right, and in an instant his seductive sensuality was replaced with clear-eyed alertness. It took Julian a couple more seconds to catch up to the change, but when he came back to himself and looked toward the doorway leading into the house he saw a tall broad Cardassian in a sharp grey suit standing there, gazing at them and silently waiting.  
  
Garak turned back to him with an apologetic smile and spoke as politely and cheerfully as if they hadn't just been passionately engaged. "I'm sorry, my dear, but I really must dash. Meet me for dinner tomorrow?"  
  
"Uh." He was still trying to make the transition from those kisses to a rational discussion. "I'm working late at the clinic…"  
  
Garak sat back from him and straightened himself with a little tug on the bottom of his jacket and a slight twist of his broad shoulders inside its confines. "How late is 'late'?"  
  
"Um." Julian sat up in his turn, feeling much more rumpled and definitely still hot and bothered. "Until nine PM, at least."  
  
"I'll send a car to pick you up." His tone, calm but authoritative, brooked no argument. "If you have to stay later, it will wait for you."  
  
"I…" Julian looked up at him as the Cardassian rose to his feet, the words still tangled in his throat. "... thank you."  
  
Garak bestowed one last smile upon him, then leaned down and took Julian's left hand and bent to grace the air just above it with a gallant kiss. "Until tomorrow, then," he promised, and turned away. The man in the sharp suit followed him after he'd exited the veranda, casting a final glance in Julian's direction with flat dark eyes, and then Julian was alone, still gasping for breath and bewildered and hopelessly, achingly aroused, not even entirely sure what had hit him — or how to handle the inevitable questions in the aftermath. 


	2. Chapter 2

Julian managed to put those questions aside long enough to get himself (and especially his cock) back under control and return to the party, where he threw himself back into the task of drumming up interest and financial support for the William Street Clinic by socializing with the wealthy and the powerful. It was work that he flattered himself he was well-suited for, with his smooth British charm and winning smile, and he found himself spending quite a bit of time chatting with Jadzia Dax, heiress to the Dax Consortium's metalworking fortune and quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the room in her thin glittering knee-high Flapper dress and playful little hat, such a bright cheerful contrast with the more modest full-length styles worn by most other females in the room.   
  
As he vied for her attention against the many other finely-dressed young men who sought her company, in spite of his resolution to concentrate on business he found himself wondering just what his current state of mind meant: after all, there he'd been, burning in Garak's embrace and melting under his kisses, and now here he was not half an hour later, lit up by the proximity of a gorgeous woman in a way that was definitely sexual at bottom. Glancing around the room at the shining crowd he found his attention captured by numerous young women and by not a single man present. It was a troubling puzzle, but he gave himself a little mental shake and put it firmly aside, and went back to telling Miss Dax about the essential services the Clinic provided to the down-and-out, the indigent, and the working poor of the city's darkest and most desperate streets.  
  
When he left the party at 10:30 PM — it promised to go on much later but he had to be up very early the next morning — he carried two intangible rewards with him: the memory of Jadzia's smile, so warm and brilliant, and the promise from her of a $2000 donation to the Clinic. He hadn't been able to secure a further promise, to meet him for supper some evening to discuss all the good work that her money would make possible, but he had hopes that with time and persistence he'd be able to achieve that goal as well. Slipping into the back of the taxi Dame Van der Veer had so kindly provided to get him safely home from her soiree, he found himself humming on an upbeat note to the tune of a popular song:   
  
 _Everybody loves my baby,  
But my baby don't love nobody but me.   
Nobody but me!  
Everybody wants my baby,   
But my baby don't want nobody but me   
That's plain to see…_  
  
— a happy sound that faded as the car pulled out onto the dark country driveway and he found himself alone (or as good as alone) with his thoughts… and with the memories that the events of the evening had left imprinted on his flesh. Or at least it felt like a brand: his lips burned with the ghosts of Garak's kisses, and he found the image he'd been treasuring of Jadzia's sparkling blue eyes replaced with the sly curve of grey lips and the seductive passion in an illicit gaze.   
  
 _But I like women,_  he told himself again, trying to cling to the sweet curves of Jadzia's body under her dress… and he  _did_  like women, there was no question about that. He liked them very much. Had Jadzia whispered in his ear that she wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her, he would have done so without a second's hesitation and had a deuced good time while he was at it. But sitting with Garak on that darkened veranda, letting himself be kissed — hell,  _yearning_  to be kissed with a nearly desperate urgency — he'd wanted to be made love to as the receptive partner, and while that was entirely new and somewhat disturbing, it was also undeniable.  
  
He sat back against the leather seat with a subliminal sigh, turning his pensive gaze on the sliver of moon just visible through the top of the car's window as the trees slid by.  _Why the hell did he have to pick_  my _bathroom to barge into when he got himself shot? If I hadn't been in the middle of taking a bath and if I hadn't been so keen on tending to his wound that I leaped out of it without stopping to think, maybe none of this would have happened…_  
  
From much deeper, a traitorous whisper murmured:  _But you're glad it did, aren't you?_  
  
 _No! Of course not!_  He snorted an incredulous little laugh, although there was really no one present to hear it.  _My God, who in their right mind would be happy to realize that they wanted… that! It's a perversion of nature, and it's downright criminal to boot! In addition, it's frankly disgusting!_  
  
For a moment he thought the deeper voice had been silenced, and was just congratulating himself on his good sense and sound moral compass when it spoke up again:   
  
 _Then why are you half-hard just thinking about it?_  
  
Julian decided that he'd be much better off to consider the best possible phrasing for the opening paragraphs in his upcoming paper on the effects of sodium pentadine on secondary syphilis, and he managed to keep his mind firmly on that track the rest of the way home, and definitely did not think about how profoundly natural the reputedly unnatural had felt when it involved a certain male Cardassian.  
  
[TO BE CONTINUED…]


	3. Chapter 3

When Julian got home he found a note from Nurse Jabara Elin slipped under his front door; as they'd agreed, she'd walked the two and a half blocks to his run-down apartment building from the Clinic after it closed for the night and submitted a brief report, which indicated that the staff had seen the usual assortment of bar fight injuries and alcohol poisonings they encountered on Saturday nights, seven of which had been been serious enough to send along to Metropolitan Hospital for further treatment. They'd also handled two Human female rape victims, a Human child with a broken finger, and a Bajoran man with a deep chest infection who'd been given medication and told to report back in three days; seeing the name, Julian recognized it as belonging to a fellow who suffered such ailments on a regular basis and would likely not return as ordered, which was a big part of his ongoing problem. Thinking about possible ways to convince Mister Teevar that he should really pay attention to medical personnel kept Julian from obsessing about less proper subjects as he prepared for bed, and he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.  
  
But the second his eyes opened again he felt the bright tingle of anticipation, like a child on Christmas morning, and then he remembered:  _I agreed to meet Elim Garak for supper tonight._  Turning on the bedside light, he glanced at his clock and saw that he was up a full hour earlier than usual, but restlessness wouldn't let him relax, much less go back to sleep: he sprang out of bed, had a warm shower and a shave, whipped up a quick breakfast, bolted it down, and briskly walked the long blocks to the Clinic in the fresh dawn light that made even the tired inner city seem gilded and somehow splendid. Nurse Eileen Fisher was just putting on coffee as he came in the door, and her welcoming smile — she had a crush on him, he knew, but he'd always felt more paternal toward her than amorous — only put an extra shine on the day.   
  
Julian went about his duties with a spring in his step and a song in his heart, alternately eager and nervous, even if the cause of his contradictory moods was something he could never admit, especially to Nurse Jabara, who had a natural distaste for Cardassians — well, some Cardassians, at any rate, she never hesitated to help the ones who came through the Clinic's doors in their hour of need, but she detested the ones like Garak and his gang who operated from positions of ruthless power. Mercifully she didn't bring up that particular subject during the morning: Julian was already holding his own lively internal debate between the inarguable reaction of his body and mind — for Garak was intrinsically charismatic and intelligent and attractive on a number of different levels, even if Julian wasn't quite sure yet just how the physical side of it worked — and his awareness of what Garak actually  _was_ , the leader of a criminal organization that dealt in bootleg alcohol, drugs, prostitution, blackmail, and murder on top of everything else. How was he supposed to reconcile that brutal occupation with the man who'd seduced him so playfully and kissed him with such tender heat?   
  
One mitigating set of circumstances came immediately to mind: ever since Garak had come to him to have stitches put in his arm Julian had paid closer attention to what was said about the crime lord in the newspapers and on radio, and he'd read in three different articles how savage the reign of Garak's predecessor and mentor, Enabran Tain, had been — and how Garak had ushered in a less violent and overtly cruel era when he took control of Tain's operation. He'd stopped using children as alcohol and drug runners and as lookouts, and since he'd become head of the Obsidian gang there'd been far fewer reports of women being forced into lives of prostitution. Oh, Garak's practices were certainly still bad enough, but he was more inclined to conciliation with his enemies than to killing them, and his presence had led to more stability and less outright warfare on the mean streets controlled by his gang. One newspaper reporter had gone so far as to dub him "The Kindly Kingpin", although the moniker didn't seem to have caught on.  
  
Constable Odo's opinion, when Julian had gone to him shortly after Garak's impromptu late-night visit, had been much less charitable. "You're lucky you got out of it alive," the Changeling had told Julian bluntly when he'd heard the full account. "Elim Garak is one of the most dangerous men in this city: he's been responsible for the deaths of at least twelve people and the disappearance of twenty-two others, and that's not counting the ones who've died from the 'product' his organization sells on the streets. Oh, he attends high society functions and donates to charity and makes a big show out of cutting back his prostitution racket and setting up soup kitchens for little children, but anybody with a working knowledge of the underworld could tell you that he's got plenty of blood on his hands and he doesn't hesitate to use violence when it suits his purposes. I'd advise you to stay as far away from him as possible."  
  
It had been advice that Julian had fully intended to take: he had enough trouble in his life without getting anywhere near a Cardassian warlord, didn't he? What he hadn't counted on was the warlord coming after  _him_  with such confident and masterful seductiveness that it had set his internal compass wildly spinning. It was spinning still, and as the sun tracked across the sky toward its zenith he found himself periodically wondering if Garak had somehow managed to slip something into the juice he'd been drinking at the party, because he didn't seem to be thinking very clearly if he was seriously considering actually getting into that car and letting it take him wherever Garak wanted it to.  
  
The alternative was refusing to go, and possibly never seeing the Cardassian again. The heat that still simmered in his core whenever he remembered the quality of Garak's smile ruled out that possibility, so at noon he left Doctor Albright in charge long enough to slip out to the bank and withdraw twenty dollars from his personal account, sufficient to pay for his own dinner and take a cab from just about anywhere in the city if things turned sour ( _and what if he takes you outside city limits?_  the deep voice whispered, but he firmly set aside the notion of being abducted and told himself he'd cross that bridge if he came to it, and tried not to think about whether the prospect alarmed him or excited him).   
  
He had plenty to keep him busy — Sundays at the Clinic were the only day some people had to come in for problems that had been lingering all week — but underneath the activity he was waiting, waiting. All afternoon he bustled back and forth, evaluating and diagnosing and treating and soothing and admonishing, presenting the authoritative face of modern Medicine while the war between caution and daring raged ever more savagely in his breast. By the time the sun was sinking behind the skyline he felt like he was going to jump out of his own skin at the slightest provocation. He doubted that his patients noticed, but Nurse Jabara, who had been his right hand since the facility opened and was one smart cookie, definitely did.  
  
"Are you feeling all right, Doctor?" she asked, after following him when he went into the back of the Clinic to sneak a couple of mouthfuls of coffee between cases.  
  
"Hm?" Standing at the central table with the coffee pot in one hand and a cup in the other, he glanced up at her with surprise — and, he hoped, no trace of guilt. "Oh, I'm fine, Nurse — perfectly fine."  
  
She studied him with her alert brown eyes as he poured, set down the pot, and tipped three teaspoons of sugar into his cup. "Hm," she repeated wryly, which earned her an exasperated look. "You seem a little nervous, is all."  
  
"Nervous? Me?" He laughed at the notion and tossed back a mouthful of the lukewarm brew, his mind racing: he knew that telling falsehoods had never been his strong suit, and judging by the older woman's expression she wasn't buying this one for a second… and since she was scheduled to stay to the end of his own shift, she'd probably notice him getting into a strange car when it was over. "Well… a little," he admitted, and fiddled with the cup for a second, then put it down on the table and cleared his throat. "You know Elim Garak…?"  
  
One eyebrow rose. "The head of the Obsidian gang?" The last two words were practically spat. "What about him?"  
  
"Yes. Him. Well, he's… I met him at Dame Van der Veer's party yesterday, and he's asked to see me later tonight."  
  
Both eyebrows elevated alarmingly. "To 'see' you? What does he mean, 'see' you?"  
  
"Frankly, I have no idea." Which was true, as far as it went: Garak hadn't outright  _said_  that he intended to continue the seduction. "But he was very insistent and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."  
  
"Well, you can't go!" She was scowling now, looking at him with that maternal concern that sometimes annoyed him but now made him feel obscurely comforted. "Why didn't you say something earlier? By the Prophets! Have you told Constable Odo?"  
  
"No," Julian said firmly, "and I have no intention of doing so until I know exactly what's going on."  
  
"What's going on?" She was fluffing up like a mother hen. "I'll tell you what's going on — he means to do you harm! To threaten you, or try to blackmail you, or have you beaten to within an inch of your life!"  
  
"Actually, he was very polite —"  
  
"Of course he was!" Jabara practically growled. "Men like him — Cardassians — always are, just as they're getting ready to pump you full of —"  
  
"Nurse," Julian interjected sharply in a tone that brooked no argument, and turned around to put his right hand on her shoulder. She looked like she was going to keep going for a second, but he frowned sternly and she closed her mouth. "He didn't threaten me, and he hasn't sent any thugs to break up the Clinic or harass our patients. All he said was that he'd send a car by to pick me up after my shift, and that we'd meet for dinner. And," he said when her lips parted again, "I've been to the bank and gotten out enough money to get myself home from anywhere in the city."  
  
She stared at him incredulously. "You're not actually going to  _go_ , are you?"  
  
"I'm going to hear what he has to say." Julian shrugged, then smiled slightly. "Who knows? He's pumped a lot of money into this neighbourhood already. Maybe he's going to give some of it to us."  
  
"Blood money," Jabara asserted, but he could tell that she was standing down, and after a moment she sighed and her stiffened shoulder softened a little under his hand. "Oh, Doctor… it's pointless trying to talk you out of this, isn't it?"  
  
"You know me better than that," Julian said, his smile widening.   
  
"I do." She studied his face with a blend of concern and determination. "All right. But for the sake of the Prophets,  _be careful!_  And if you're not back at your apartment by tomorrow morning —"  
  
"I may be out very late, and it's been a long day already, so don't go knocking on my door before noon, if you please." He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and removed his hand. "I'll be fine, Elin: I'm a big boy, and I know how to take care of myself."  
  
"You're much too trusting," she countered, "and when it comes to Cardassians, that's a recipe for disaster."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Julian said, turning back to pick up his coffee and trying not to let her words rouse the apprehensive part of him to another round of fretting about something that was already a  _fait accompli_.  
  
************************************  
  
Over the course of the afternoon the clear bright sky turned cloudy, and shortly after sunset a thin rain began to fall. When Julian finally wound things down for the night, just before 9:30 PM, it was pattering fitfully against the windows, and while Jabara turned out the front lights and left by the front door and locked it behind her he glanced out through the small barred pane of glass beside the back door and saw a car waiting about fifteen feet down the alley, black and enigmatic in the dense shadows.   
  
For an instant his heart fluttered in his chest, and he thought about silently turning out the remaining lights and taking his own leave via the front street entrance, leaving all the possibilities that car represented unexplored. But he also knew that if he did that he'd be wondering about it for the rest of his life, so he set about his final check of the building and returned to the back door, opening it and stepping out and huddling under the little awning just above it while he locked the door and checked to make sure it was secure. Then he took a deep steadying breath and stepped out into the rain, heading toward the new life he'd chosen with a brisk and determined stride that, he hoped, betrayed none of the nervous energy thrilling through every tissue of his body.


	4. Chapter 4

He decided to treat the situation like a taxi pick-up, and slid into the back seat kitty-corner to the driver, who was a Cardassian in a chauffeur's uniform that might have been charcoal grey or navy blue: it was very hard to tell, because the interior of the car was even dimmer than the alleyway. When Julian was settled and had closed the door again the man turned his head slightly, not enough to look directly at his passenger but enough to acknowledge his presence.   
  
"Good evening, sir." His voice was low and cultured. "And where may I take you this evening?"  
  
"Um," Julian said, startled by the question. "I have a choice?"  
  
"Of course, sir." The driver didn't sound the least bit surprised by his reaction. "Mister Garak is waiting for you at the Plaza Hotel, but he has instructed that you're to be taken wherever you wish — including to your apartment, if you so desire."  
  
Julian looked down at his own clothes, which were businesslike but rather rumpled after a day in the medical trenches. "Well, I suppose I really  _should_  get changed…"  
  
"Evening clothes are waiting for you at the hotel, sir."  
  
"They are?" He blinked, wondering if there was anything Garak hadn't thought of.  
  
"Yes, sir," the driver responded patiently.   
  
"Ah." He sat further back in the comfortable leather seat, rapidly processing all the variables. Garak was giving him the opportunity to back out if he changed his mind — well, Julian wasn't about to punk out  _that_  easily! "In that case, I'd like to go straight to the hotel, please."  
  
"Very good, sir," the driver murmured, and turned his face forward again, setting the car in motion with a barely perceptible jerk. As they rolled down the alley and turned onto 24th Street Julian reflected that he'd never been in a vehicle that rode this smoothly: it spoke of wealth and power in a way that was understated yet perfectly clear.  
  
 _Just like Garak himself,_  Julian thought, watching the crumbling buildings go by as the driver headed uptown through the sparse traffic.  _The man's elevated classiness to an art form… I can't believe he actually gave me a choice about this… or maybe it was a test, and I would have paid for it if I'd made the wrong decision._  While that would seem to be in character for a gangster, he wasn't sure yet if it was in character for this particular individual.  _Well, I'll soon find out. I'm about to spend an evening with the man; if I can't suss out at least that much about him by the time it's over, I've really lost my touch._  
  
The Deep Voice spoke up again:  _You intend to spend a lot more than just the evening with him if you can manage it, don't you?_  
  
"Shut up," Julian muttered, feeling his cheeks redden and a thrill of pleasant tension tighten in his groin.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Er, nothing." He coughed into his clenched fist. "Just clearing my throat."  
  
"Very good, sir."  
  
 _So what if I do?_  he retorted silently.  _I mean, yes, this is all rather sudden, and yes, it's completely unexpected, and yes, technically it IS illegal, but dammit, I'm a grown man and I'm entitled to make my own decisions!_  
  
The Voice took on a musing tone:  _He's not even very handsome — not like Victor Cooper was, and you never wanted to jump into bed with HIM._  
  
Julian clearly remembered Garak's winning smile and the merry sparkle of his eyes.  _Oh, he's handsome enough,_  he thought earnestly, and caught himself almost sighing.  _And there's something intriguing about all those scales…_  
  
 _You've taken leave of your senses,_  the Voice snapped, now sounding uncommonly like Julian's father.  _If you end up getting blackmailed over this —_  
  
 _Blackmailed?_  Julian almost laughed out loud.  _How could he blackmail me? He'd be blackmailing himself! And besides,_  he continued,  _all I've agreed to do is have dinner with him, and if I get a bad feeling about the whole thing, I've got money enough to get myself home in one piece._  
  
 _If he lets you get home,_  the Voice countered, but now it sounded sullen.  _Like he said, he's accustomed to getting what he wants — and he wants YOU. Who's to say he won't force himself on you, or drug you so you'll let him do whatever he wants?_  
  
 _He wouldn't do that,_  Julian asserted instantly.  
  
 _You can't say for —_  
  
 _Actually, yes. Yes, I can._  He spoke with certainty rooted in pure instinct.  _He doesn't strike me as the type who would place much value in something obtained by brute force, at least not when it comes to his lovers. And besides, as long as we're being honest we both know that unless a major red flag comes up I AM going to 'let him do whatever he wants', because the man makes me so hot I can't even see straight. I don't know where this came from, if it was lurking inside me all along and he just woke it up or if he gave it to me like some viral strain, but if this night doesn't end up with the two of us in bed together I'll have done something dreadfully, terribly wrong._  
  
The buildings outside the windows were changing in character, becoming cleaner and more prosperous as Julian was carried ever further outside his everyday world. The Voice fell silent, leaving him with the coil of anticipation winding ever tighter in his belly, until the cityscape became one of neat sidewalks, immaculate cars and towering buildings and the driver at last pulled up in front of the Plaza Hotel, possibly the most expensive place to stay in the entire state. Craning his neck to look up at the sleek marble facing, Julian felt like a country mouse being deposited on the doorstep of a mansion.  
  
"Thank you," he told the driver, who nodded and wished him a very good evening, and when he exited the car a small Human male who'd been waiting under the hotel's front awning quickly approached him, unfurling an umbrella and raising it above him to fend off the persistent drizzle of rain.  
  
"Doctor Bashir?" the man asked, but the cool certainty of his eyes told Julian that he had already been recognized. He nodded, and the man continued: "My name is Prentice, sir. Mister Garak has sent me to escort you to dinner, but I'm sure you'd like to get changed first. If you'll follow me…"  
  
Julian let himself be escorted into the hotel, into a red lobby full of leather and plush and gilding, lit by massive electric chandeliers suspended from the rococo ceiling high overhead. Prentice led him past the long marble front desk and elegant gentlemen and ladies in full evening dress, smoking and laughing and talking in low refined voices, and by the time they reached the elevator Julian was feeling more than a little bit shabby. He caught himself looking guiltily down at his brown shoes while they waited for the elevator to arrive, wondering how the hell he was supposed to get away with wearing  _those_  to dinner in this glittering place, but after they'd emerged on the sixteenth floor and Prentice had walked him down the hallway to the door at the end and ushered him through it, the answer became clear.  
  
The corner suite was gorgeous and huge, windowed on two sides, with a sitting room in front complete with two couches and a radio, and a bedroom featuring a wide and immensely comfortable looking bed. The lights in the suite were on, soft classical music was playing, and Julian immediately noticed the full tuxedo laid out on the brocade bedspread, its legs draped over the edge, and the pair of gleaming black dress shoes set neatly on the floor in front of it.  
  
"I'll just wait for you outside, sir," Prentice murmured, and closed the door behind him, leaving a smiling Julian to soak up the incredible ambience for a delicious moment before setting himself to the task of preparing himself for whatever was to come. Now more than ever, he suspected that it was going to be delightful — and quite possibly the most exciting night of his life.  
  
[TO BE CONTINUED…]


	5. Chapter 5

Not wanting to keep Garak waiting any longer than necessary, Julian quickly removed his day suit and hung it up neatly in the huge closet beside the bed, then stripped off his underwear and socks and headed for the washroom. There he found soap, thick washcloths and towels, and an obviously expensive set of shaving equipment, and he thoroughly washed his underarms and his genitals, his perineum and his gluteal cleft, giving his neck and arms a quick soap-and-rinse as well. Then he lathered up and shaved, carefully: he didn't want any nicks to mar his face, and was able to get himself nicely freshened up without any unfortunate accidents.   
  
Patting his face dry with one of the luxurious towels, he glanced up at himself in the mirror — and wondered how he must look to Cardassian eyes. Uncannily smooth, undoubtedly, although Garak didn't seem to find his lack of defining ridges unattractive in the least. The eyebrows must seem especially strange, he decided, and the pubic hair, which Cardassians completely lacked. For one impulsive second he even considered shaving himself 'down there', but immediately decided against it: for one thing he didn't have time to do it meticulously, and for another Garak had to be aware of how mammals were configured, and was perhaps counting on that alien detail. He might even find it arousing, and right now Julian desperately wanted to be as attractive as he possibly could.   
  
Once dry he padded back to the bedroom to don the tuxedo. It was perfectly made, but he didn't expect it to fit as well as it did — as well, in fact, as if his own tailor had made it, if not better. Even the underwear and shoes were exactly the right size. Surveying himself in the full-length mirror as he secured his bow tie, he had to admit that he looked marvellously slim and spiffy: in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if the clothes currently on his back were the most expensive he'd ever worn in his life.  
  
 _How did Garak know —?_  Well, all sorts of things, including his measurements down to the last sixteenth of an inch. A question for later, perhaps, over dinner — or later still, over a pillow. A brief vision of Garak stripping him out of the tuxedo, of smiles and kisses and clever grey hands gliding over the skin of his belly, made him go momentarily hot all over. Hoping that it hadn't been enough to start him sweating, he gave himself a last once-over in the mirror, was satisfied with what he saw, and headed for the door to the hallway, savouring the feeling of wearing clean, perfectly tailored dress clothes.  
  
Prentice was waiting in the hallway at parade attention, his hands neatly clasped behind his back. "Was everything satisfactory, sir?"   
  
"Quite," Julian assured him with a smile.  
  
"Excellent." He reached into the left pocket of his dress jacket and pulled out a key, which he held out to Julian. "The key to your room, sir."  
  
Julian looked at it, his eyebrows contracting in a little frown. " _My_  room?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"But… I'm not paying for it. Mister Garak is, which makes it his room, doesn't it?"  
  
"No, sir," Prentice said firmly. "This is  _your_  room for the evening — Mister Garak was very clear on that point. You are free to invite anyone you wish to join you within it, or to refuse anyone entrance."  
  
"Anyone? Even Mister Garak?"  
  
"That is my understanding, yes."  
  
"I see." After a moment's thought he took the key and started to slip it into his pants pocket, until Prentice delicately cleared his throat.  
  
"Perhaps you should lock the door, sir…?"  
  
"Oh. Of course!" Hastily he did exactly that, then pocketed the key. "Sorry," he mumbled, then cursed himself for apologizing to the hired help.  
  
"That's quite all right, sir." Prentice's green eyes twinkled with a hint of humour in his politely professional mask. He gestured toward the elevator and took a step in that direction. "Shall we…?"  
  
"Yes," Julian agreed, and gladly followed. Heading back to the elevator, he felt worlds away from how he'd walked into the hotel: now he was dressed to the nines and undeniably swanky, a worthy inhabitant of this rarified realm. Still, when the elevator had ascended several stories and was starting to slow down he found himself tugging on the bottom of his dress jacket, a nervous little grooming gesture enacted before he could stop himself.  
  
The doors opened, revealing a vast space largely shadowed but attractively spot-lit with candles and lamps on the tables arrayed beyond the front foyer. "The Plaza Luxor, sir," Prentice intoned, and gestured for Julian to exit. "Mister Garak is expecting you."  
  
"I — ah, thank you." He wondered if he was supposed to tip his escort, but settled for a grateful smile instead and stepped out onto the soft dense carpet. Prentice remained in the elevator, and as its doors closed, cutting off its light, Julian saw a waiter approaching, ascending the five steps up to the foyer with an alacrity that managed to be also sedate.   
  
"Doctor Bashir," the waiter greeted him in a deep musical voice. Julian was starting to wonder if a picture of him had been circulated in advance. The man was darker than Julian, his smooth skin the colour of cocoa, and when he bowed low at the waist the gesture was respectful rather than subservient. "Welcome to the Plaza Luxor. Mister Garak is waiting for you. If you'll come with me…"  
  
So once again Julian followed a stranger, taking in the magnificent decor as they walked through the cavernous space towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Plaza Luxor was a five star restaurant made up in an Egyptian theme; gilded statues of ancient gods stood against the walls as pillars and the accents were of gold and maroon and Nile green on a dark sand background, the overall effect one of richness and splendour. It was a place that Julian would never have even considered darkening the door of in his profession as a Skid Row doctor… but he'd taken on a new role for this evening, that of a gorgeously appointed companion to a gangster, and as he was led to that assignation he found himself feeling that it rather suited him.   
  
The sweep of the city skyline visible beyond the grand windows was a long glittering vista of lights, its glow enhanced by the fact that in this area of the restaurant, which was reached by a descent of three more steps, the tables were all dark and empty — save one, which was lit by a small lamp of vaguely Egyptian configuration. Garak, of course, was sitting at it, his back toward the entrance, his face towards the windows, as if he was taking pleasure in the view. Julian was suddenly and irrationally convinced that he'd bought up all the other tables just to assure some privacy, but of course he had no proof whatsoever and this wasn't the time to ask, because they were approaching the table and Garak was turning in his seat and his face was lit up with a smile of such delight that the last of Julian's doubts about accepting this invitation instantly evaporated.  
  
"Doctor Bashir!" His gaze remained locked on Julian as he crossed the last few feet and took the only other seat at the small table, directly across from Garak's position. It placed Julian where he could, if he turned his head to the right, also admire the glitter of the city, but he somehow doubted he'd be doing much of that. "What a pleasure it is to see you again!"  
  
"And you," Julian smiled, feeling bold and confident and shy and, again, uncertain of exactly what to do with his hands. He settled for resting them loosely on top of his thighs.   
  
"I trust your day at the clinic was uneventful?"  
  
"It was busy, but no, there were no emergencies to be dealt with. I, ah, I trust that I didn't keep you waiting overly long?"  
  
"Not in the least," Garak smiled; his gaze lingered over Julian's throat and shoulders and chest before returning to his face. Julian found he welcomed the unhurried scrutiny. "I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to take the liberty of ordering dinner for both of us. Nothing too fancy, you understand — but, I hope, nonetheless memorable."  
  
Julian nodded, and hazarded a double entendre: "I place myself entirely in your capable hands."  
  
"Excellent," Garak murmured, his smile widening in acknowledgement of the verbal gambit. "I think you'll find my choices most… fulfilling." He glanced at the waiter, who had been standing silently at his right shoulder. "You'll take wine, of course?"  
  
Julian hesitated only a second. "Of course," he said: after all, if he was being treated to dinner by a crime lord and intended to break the law in any case, why shouldn't he enjoy a little wine with his meal?  
  
Garak nodded, and addressed the waiter in perfect French. Julian, who'd picked up the basics of the language during a few summers spent with an aunt whose husband was originally from Ypres, listened with great interest to the menu: cream of celery soup with toasties, breast of chicken a la rose, asparagus tips au gratin, potatoes a la hollandaise, Waldorf salad, and creme brulee. The waiter nodded as each item was requested, repeated the order back, then launched into a short list of available wines that, Julian recognized from his father's tutelage, would all pair well with the proposed meal.  
  
The waiter's attention was still on Garak. "And which wine would Monsieur care to enjoy this evening?"  
  
Garak appeared to give that a moment's thought, and Julian took the opportunity to hold up his right forefinger.  
  
"May I?" he asked Garak, and when the Cardassian nodded, looking intrigued, he turned to the waiter and said in fluent, if rather heavily accented, French: "I believe you mentioned a Chateau Bordelais '06, correct?"  
  
The waiter tilted his chin in a little bow, and Julian glanced at Garak for permission — after all, this was being paid for with his money. Another nod. "We'll take a bottle of that, please — chilled, and opened at the table."  
  
"Very good, Monsieurs," the waiter bowed, and ghosted off, presumably toward the kitchen.   
  
When he'd disappeared up the steps Garak turned his full attention to Julian. "Ah!" He could get used to making Garak's eyes light up that way, he decided, although he suspected it would get harder to pull off as time went on. "You speak French!" the Cardassian continued in perfect Parisian. "And have some knowledge of wines as well, I see."  
  
Julian smiled. "Only a little," he demurred, "and my accent is atrocious."  
  
"Not at all," Garak assured him, "in fact it's perfectly charming!" And for a few minutes the conversation turned to where they'd learned the language: Garak from a private tutor as a child, Julian from those warm and happy summers in the English countryside with his aunt. They discussed the wine he'd chosen and the niceties of making such determinations, an appreciation for which they'd apparently both gained from their fathers… and then, just to have fun, Julian changed tactics.  
  
"Do you speak Arabic as well?" he asked, in the appropriate language.  
  
Garak tilted his head, his smile fading noticeably. "That's… not a language I'm familiar with," he said with a hint of something like warning, slipping back into English. "But it's Middle Eastern, isn't it?"  
  
 _Ah,_  Julian thought,  _so he doesn't like to have his lacks pointed out._  Which wasn't a surprise, given what he'd learned about this man so far.  
  
The half-full shallow bowls of soup arrived and were set down by with a murmured salutation of  _Bon appetit_  from the waiter, who disappeared again at once. Julian picked up his spoon, but paused before dipping it into his bowl. "I apologize," he said, again in French. "That was very rude of me."  
  
"No," Garak corrected him in the same language, "you were testing me — which it's well within your rights to do. After all," and the smile returned, bright and mischievous, "I have no idea what your criteria are for… a successful acquaintance."   
  
Julian had to grin at that, glancing away shyly but briefly before finally tasting his soup, which turned out to be excellent, rich with onions and pepper. "How many other languages do you speak?"  
  
"Four," Garak said. "And you?"  
  
"Only Latin, I'm afraid, which any doctor worth his salt has to know practically by default."  
  
"Well, a conversation entirely in Latin, while it might be an amusing conceit, would not prove half as sensuous as employing the Gallic tongue, non?" He leaned a little nearer, his eyes sparkling in the lamplight. "I suggest that we use this language for all our public conversations, my dear. It dramatically decreases the chances of being overheard — or at least, of being understood."  
  
Julian nodded. "Agreed." Then, gathering his boldness, he met Garak's eyes steadily. "And what shall we use for pillow talk?"  
  
Garak regarded him for a long moment, and his smile took on a hot edge that made Julian's skin tingle. "Why don't we play that one by ear? Love, after all, often has its own language, don't you agree?"  
  
That word shouldn't have made his pulse pound the way it did, Julian told himself. He'd used it so many times himself, spoken softly and passionately into the dainty ears of various women; he was fully aware of how easily it could be said, and with how little thought. But here he was, in a gorgeous romantic setting with a powerful and cultured older man who was looking at him as if he was the most beautiful thing in the room: how could it fail to affect him?  
  
He smiled in a way that he hoped didn't look too wide or too foolish and briefly dropped his gaze, turning his attention to his soup. They ate in companionable silence, Garak appearing to savour every mouthful, but Julian's mind was racing, running ahead to plan out the next conversational gambit; and when the soup was finished, which didn't take long at all, and the waiter had come and gone again, he asked: "And how was  _your_  day?"  
  
Garak wrinkled his ridged nose and made a little dismissive gesture with one hand. "Oh, you wouldn't want to hear about any of that. It was all terribly boring, actually."  
  
"What," Julian felt emboldened enough to quip, "nobody took a shot at you?"  
  
A resigned sigh, but his eyes were mischievously bright. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"  
  
"I'm afraid not. And you haven't answered my question."  
  
"If you must know, I spent the day going over accounts. Tedious, but necessary. I suppose you have someone to do such work for you?"  
  
"Actually, yes. We have an accountant who volunteers his services at a greatly reduced rate."  
  
Garak nodded. "With such a wide variety of inventory involved, you must have need of his expertise."  
  
"I'm surprised you don't make use of an accountant yourself. Surely you can afford it?" He glanced around at their luxurious surroundings to make the point.  
  
"I can," Garak allowed, "but there are some aspects of my business that I simply can't trust to another set of eyes." He held up one forefinger as if to emphasize a vital point. "Attention to detail, my dear Doctor, is the hallmark of any successful businessman."  
  
Julian studied him through half-lowered lashes. "And is that how you'd describe yourself?" he asked quietly. "A businessman?"  
  
The Cardassian shrugged a little inside the tuxedo that emphasized the width of his ridged neck and broad shoulders. "There are all kinds of 'business' that must be transacted to keep our society humming smoothly along. Take your line of work, for example. You sell good health —"  
  
"Nobody who walks in our doors is charged one red cent," Julian protested.  
  
Garak held up his hand. "Oh, I know that you don't make your patients pay, but you solicit donations from those who  _can_  afford to fund your work. You sell good health to the poor, which is paid for by the rich. It would never seriously occur to you to do it for nothing, would it?"  
  
"If I had no other choice," Julian retorted with some heat, "then yes, of course I'd do it for nothing. I wouldn't stand by and watch people suffer and die if I could possibly help it!"  
  
Garak studied him for a moment. "You really mean that," he said, his expression unreadable.  
  
"Of course I mean it." Julian consciously reined in his temper, drew a deep breath, then released it and offered a thin smile. "You'll have to forgive me — I've had a very similar conversation with my father, many times. He couldn't believe that I was going to 'throw away a great career' to work amongst the poor, for next to no financial return."  
  
Garak tilted his head slightly, sympathetically. "So, he didn't approve of your decision to open your Clinic?"  
  
"He thought I was barking mad." Giving himself a little internal shake, Julian offered a more genuine smile. "I'm sorry… I tend to get rather passionate on the subject. Perhaps we should talk about something else."  
  
Garak's expression was openly admiring. "Ah, but passion is exactly what I want to see in you, dear boy. I find it both refreshing and invigorating, provided, of course, that it doesn't upset you too badly."  
  
Julian shook his head. "It doesn't — not really. After all," and he let his gaze and his tone turn teasing again, "you're not my father, are you?"  
  
"I sincerely hope not," Garak said with with a throaty little chuckle, just as the waiter appeared bearing the main course.  
  
[TO BE CONTINUED…]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Contains a time period-appropriate racial term that might be considered offensive today.

The tall impassive Negro was followed by a uniformed white man who barely came up to his shoulder, carrying a long-legged silver tripod which held a blue-enamelled bucket of ice cradling the requested bottle of Chateau Bordelais '06. While it was being set down the waiter placed each plate with a flourish and a little bow, then turned his attention to the wine; he removed it from its chilly bed and displayed the antiqued label first to Julian, then to Garak, while his assistant hastened to place an appropriately rounded glass in front of each of them. He held out his hand, for which the assistant immediately supplied a corkscrew, and with a few deft motions loosened the cork, pulled it smoothly forth, and passed it to the assistant without so much as a sidelong glance before gracefully decanting a clear mouthful into Julian's glass to be tasted.  
  
He looked to Garak — although he'd picked the vintage, he wasn't paying for it — and, receiving a hint of a nod, picked up the glass, swirled its contents, drew a swift breath of its bouquet and drank it down, pausing before swallowing to analyze the flavour. It was not too dry, with a hint of the sweetness his father had taught him was associated with the Bordelais vineyards: a fitting accompaniment for the delicately scented chicken they'd just been served. He nodded his approval, and the waiter filled both glasses half-full, recorked the bottle, replaced its butt in the ice, and took silent leave with his pale shadow.  
  
"Your father taught you well, I see," Garak said approvingly, after picking up his own glass to imbibe a sip. "I couldn't have chosen better myself."  
  
"A Bordelais is always a bit of gamble," Julian admitted, "but the vintages from the later years of the double-aughts are a better bet than most others."  
  
"If you'd wanted to play it really safe, you would have gone for the '04 Bordeaux."  
  
Julian let a trace of challenge infuse his smile."What would be the fun in that? Life is about taking risks."  
  
"A daring sentiment which I take it your father wouldn't have agreed with."  
  
"Oh, he took plenty of risks — just not when it came to his career, or his wines for that matter. If you were sitting here with him you'd be drinking the Bordeaux, I guarantee it."  
  
The curve of Garak's lips turned distinctly coquettish. "And I'd be enjoying it, but not half as much as this cheeky Bordelais. You see? Yet more proof that you needn't confuse  _me_  with  _him_."  
  
"No danger of that: his face isn't half so interesting as yours." He tried his first mouthful of chicken and found it juicy, savoury with garlic and sweet with honey and lent intrigue by the underlying flavour of rose petals. After enjoying a few bites, he added: "You do, however, seem old enough to be one of his contemporaries."  
  
Garak paused in eating to wag a reproving forefinger. "Now now, Doctor — isn't there a prohibition amongst your people against asking someone their age?"  
  
"That generally only applies to women."  
  
"Well, I'm afraid it also applies to me."  
  
"If I got a good look at the central ridge running down your spine, I could make an educated guess based on the growth patterns of the scales."  
  
"I see you've picked up a little knowledge of Cardassian physiology as well." He took up a forkful of potatoes, chewed, and swallowed before continuing: "But not enough to understand that such a method of age determination is flawed, at best."  
  
"Oh?" He took a mouthful of wine, savouring the play of flavours on his tongue.  
  
"Indeed." Garak took a sip as well, and set down his glass simultaneous with Julian's. "Scale growth can be affected by a wide range of factors, such as nutrition, past illness or injury, and simple heredity, with the tendency toward more or fewer scales at a given age being passed down through the female line."  
  
The asparagus was truly excellent; he took his time with it before replying: "Well now, there's something I wasn't aware of before."  
  
"Does it make the evening worthwhile?"  
  
"This has already been the most worthwhile evening I've enjoyed in ages," Julian said with perfect honesty: he'd passed many evenings in pubs and taverns, delighting in the playful exchange of ideas with his mates, but never like this, with a man who both challenged him intellectually and made his cock stir against his thigh. "That was just a rosette of icing on an already magnificent cake."  
  
"Ah, but you haven't sampled what lies beneath the icing yet."  
  
He studied the Cardassian through lowered eyelashes, letting his gaze linger on the scales that framed his eyes, the tiny ridge that adorned the median of his nose, and the hints of more leathery scales that were visible just above the collar of his crisp white shirt. The power suggested by the stylish breadth of his immaculate tuxedo was definitely kindling a hunger in Julian that gourmet food alone couldn't satisfy. "I'm sure it will prove  _exactly_  to my taste."  
  
"You're a confident boy, aren't you?"  
  
"'Nothing ventured, nothing gained', as the saying goes."   
  
" _And_  brash," Garak said with something close to admiration.  
  
 _Time to leap in with both feet,_  Julian decided. "You can't blame me for that — after all, you're the one who set me off with all those kisses."  
  
"Nonsense," Garak promptly retorted. "You kissed me first."  
  
"Well, that's…" He hadn't been expecting that, but recovered quickly. "True, perhaps, but you turned sheik pretty damned quickly once we got started."  
  
A blink of those blue eyes. "'Turned sheik'? Is that some bit of modern slang?"  
  
"It means —" Dammit, he was blushing again: he could feel the heat of it on his cheeks. "Well, what you were doing to me."  
  
Garak leaned forward a little, his voice falling to a conspiratorial murmur although his expression was still mild: "And you liked that, didn't you?"  
  
"I'm here, aren't I?" He held Garak's gaze, refusing to give ground. "Being all confident and brash."  
  
"And very charming in consequence," he smiled, suddenly projecting a subliminal heat through his perfectly innocent expression, "although I'll admit that being pliant and willing also suits you splendidly."  
  
The blush was deepening, but there wasn't much Julian could do about that, or about the way his erection was swelling toward half-hardness. "Which I'm usually not, by the way. This is all rather new to me."  
  
"I can tell." Ah, there it was, the knowing wickedness to match that sensual burn. "Never fear, darling — you'll find me a most thorough teacher. Are you enjoying your chicken?"  
  
"It's marvellous."  
  
"And the wine?"  
  
"A perfect pairing."  
  
"You see? I can be trusted to make good recommendations on your behalf, and we work well together already."  
  
"Now who's being confident and brash?"  
  
"Confident, yes — but  _never_  brash." He shifted back to his previous upright posture and returned his attention to his plate. "That's a characteristic of much younger men, and I haven't been guilty of it in…"  
  
Julian gave him a couple of seconds, then raised both eyebrows. "In…?"  
  
"… a very long time. And even then, I tended more toward the side of circumspection and caution."  
  
"Circumspection and caution will only get you so far in life," Julian challenged.  
  
"Depending on your occupation," Garak corrected him. "For a pharmacist or an solicitor, impulsive bravery is the last thing one wants."  
  
"True," Julian acknowledged, thoroughly enjoying their game.   
  
"But I'll admit that for a young doctor trying to keep a clinic going on Skid Row —"  
  
"— or a gangster overseeing a criminal empire —"   
  
"I'm going to pretend that you didn't direct that slanderous remark at me personally," Garak said, offering him a look of rebuke. "But yes, in either of those cases a certain boldness is required."  
  
"And as they also say, 'birds of a feather flock together'."   
  
"Or, 'fools seldom differ'."   
  
Julian paused, regarding him with overt consideration. "Oh, I'd say you're the exactly opposite of a fool, Garak."  
  
"Why, thank you!" the gangster exclaimed with evident delight. "What a thoughtful and perceptive — and definitely unfoolish — fellow you are. I can see I've made a wise decision in choosing to cultivate your friendship."  
  
Another silence fell as they each addressed their plate, but to Julian it did not feel awkward or forced: rather, it felt as natural as the ebb and flow of the tides, a sympathetic rhythm that wove back and forth between them, gathering energy with each revolution. He was enjoying his meal, which was truly delicious, but there was potent sexual appetite present as well, easily co-existing with his appreciation for the gourmet food and the luxurious setting that Garak had arranged for him. Julian knew the dance of seduction, he'd led women in its steps many times, and while he was amazed to discover that he was capable of letting another man lead  _him_  in those same patterns he also felt… well, at peace with himself. He hadn't expected that, or the unqualified pleasure that glowed in his breast whenever he glanced up and saw Garak's eyes drinking him in, still with that enigmatic trace of a smile.  
  
He finished his main course first, and set down his fork. "You know, you have no idea what lies under  _my_  layer of icing, either."  
  
Garak laid down his fork as well, and spoke without hesitation: "A brilliant, assertive, fearless and determined young man who isn't afraid to go after what he wants, and to fight for it once he gets it. Charismatic, eloquent, with tremendous dedication to his mission and a taste for the company of beautiful young women. A tireless campaigner for public health who's already made a name for himself in a city where thousands of voices are clamouring for the attention of the government and the general public. And above all, a skilled and compassionate healer. Am I at least warm?"  
  
Julian realized that he was staring at his companion with his mouth open a little. He closed it and tried not to blush too blatantly. "I'm… that's a very flattering assessment."  
  
"I pride myself on being a keen observer of Human nature," Garak said smoothly. A thin edge of teeth revealed itself. "On the other hand, you also strike me as having a tendency to get distracted by details, to be overbearing on occasion, and to sometimes succumb to the pitfall of overconfidence. All flaws," he was quick to offer reassurance, "which are natural companions to your existing virtues. Nobody's perfect."  
  
Julian had to nod in acquiescence, then laugh a little. "Now you  _do_  sound like my father."  
  
"Oh dear," Garak said with obvious dismay, "that certainly was not my intention! Not enough like your father to put you off, I hope?"  
  
"A fire truck full of cold water couldn't put me off," Julian smiled, to show there were no hard feelings. "Compliment me some more and I'm sure I'll forget all about him before you've finished the first sentence."  
  
[TO BE CONTINUED…]


	7. Chapter 7

Garak appeared to consider that option while the waiter, who had just come down the stairs with his assistant, changed out their dinner plates — Garak indicated with a flick of his fingers that he was done with his as well, even though he still had several mouthfuls of food remaining — for cover plates holding small dishes of the creme brulee. He topped up their wine glasses to the halfway mark again, replaced the bottle in its cooler, then paused just long enough to receive a tiny nod from Garak before departing again.  
  
"Compliment you," Garak mused once the servants were gone, and there was a sparkle of amusement in his eyes now. "What could I possibly say that a beautiful young man like you hasn't heard before?"  
  
"To be honest, the women I've met haven't been terribly forthcoming — it's mostly a case of me telling  _them_  how lovely their eyes are, or how soft their hair is, or how much that dress suits them. One of them told me I was 'the eel's hips', but I'm afraid that's as far as it's gotten."  
  
"'The eel's hips'?" Grimacing, he cracked the shell on his dessert, the expression of distain smoothing out as he enjoyed the first sweet mouthful. "That doesn't sound very complimentary at all."  
  
"It is, actually, but it's also rather generic."  
  
"Didn't your mother ever offer you any terms of endearment?"  
  
"I wouldn't think she'd count in this particular race, but she  _did_  tell me that I had the sweetest smile of any little boy she knew, when I was still in knee pants."  
  
"Well, rest assured that you haven't grown out of that." He kept hold of his spoon but rested his wrist on the tablecloth, seeming to appreciate every detail of Julian's appearance. "Your whole face lights up with it, and your eyes sparkle with both wit and intelligence — which are not necessarily the same thing."  
  
"So do yours," Julian countered, but he had to drop his gaze for a moment, feeling suddenly and unaccountably shy in the presence of such an incisive evaluation.  
  
"Ah, but I lack the frame of your face, which is nearly Classical in its perfection." The words were low and gentle, an intangible caress. "Or the hue of your skin, with its dusky golden glow and its charming tint of rose when you blush that way. Surely I'm not embarrassing you?"  
  
"I'm not embarrassed," Julian murmured, paying careful attention to his creme brulee, to the patterns his spoon was carving out of its integrity. "I'm just… not used to it, that's all."  
  
"What are they teaching young women these days," Garak lamented, "if not to properly praise the handsome young men who pay court to them?"  
  
"To dance the Charleston and bob their hair and drink bootleg gin," Julian said, then added after a mouthful of dessert: "Not that there's anything wrong with that, you understand."  
  
"Of course not," Garak agreed.   
  
"In fact, it's all devilishly good fun."  
  
"Undoubtedly. I'm rather sorry now that I've never taken the time to learn the dance step in question."  
  
Julian glanced up sharply, uncertain if he was being teased or not. The gleam in Garak's eyes answered that question. "It's not as if we could go out dancing anyway."  
  
"Oh, there are clubs in this city where we could — places where it's the color of your money that matters, not who you choose to take onto the floor. But with one or two exceptions they're all dreadfully lowbrow establishments where a fine fellow like yourself would feel terribly out of place."  
  
"Those one or two exceptions…" He left off picking at his brulee, drew a deep breath, and met Garak's eyes. "Would you consider taking me there sometime?"  
  
The Cardassian looked at him cooly. "So you can observe the three-letter men in their natural habitat?"  
  
"So I can go out dancing with you."  
  
For a moment the tension between them took on a different tone, one of appeal and judgement; then Garak's gaze softened and he smiled again. "Perhaps, my dear, if you'll consent to wear that suit again."  
  
"I'd be honored, considering how perfectly it fits me."  
  
Looking pleased, Garak went back to his food, and Julian joined him, pausing only for a couple of sips of what was left of his wine, which also paired remarkably well with the creme brulee. After a couple of minutes he said: "I do have to ask you, though — how did you have a tuxedo made up in exactly my size, so quickly?"  
  
"My dear, I'm a  _tailor_ ," Garak explained, only to be interrupted by an incredulous snort of laughter form Julian's end of the table. "I'm perfectly serious, and I took your measurements by eye — quite accurately, wouldn't you say? — when you jumped out of your bath so precipitously."  
  
"You're joking!"  
  
Garak blinked mildly. "I assure you, I'm not. How do you think I've made my fortune?"  
  
"Oh, by rum-running, prostitution, a little blackmail — I'm sorry, but you can't honestly expect me to believe that you sew clothing for a living?"  
  
"There's much more to it than that," Garak chided, "and I own clothing stores all up and down the Eastern seaboard, I'll have you know. Really, my dear! You don't honestly believe that I'm involved in all that — unpleasantness!"  
  
His little shudder didn't fool Julian for a second. "Of course not. And I suppose the bullet wound you brought to me that night was the result of a slip of your needle?"  
  
"You've obviously never witnessed a truly acrimonious argument about hemlines," Garak retorted, but with a trace of that secretive smile that made Julian want to keep verbally fencing with him for hours — if he didn't have more important things he intended to do, that is, although he was beginning to suspect that even sex wouldn't shut Garak up for very long. Not that he minded in the least: he'd rarely met anyone who spun word-pictures so beautifully and flawlessly and apparently effortlessly, even though it was a quality he valued highly in anyone he chose to call a friend.  
  
"All right," he allowed after swallowing another mouthful of creme brulee, "so you're a tailoring magnate who can instantly take the measure of a naked man you've seen only once… and I suppose you made this suit yourself?"  
  
"Actually, yes, I did."  
  
Julian felt his eyebrows rise precipitously. "Oh, come  _on_."  
  
"Not in a single day," Garak confessed. "I've had a little over three months to cut the pieces and put them together. I was able to take my time."  
  
That made Julian pause with the spoon halfway to his lips. "You made it before we met at Dame Van der Veer's party?"  
  
"Long before." The smile turned cunning. "You see, I knew we'd run into each other again one day, and I wanted to be fully prepared."  
  
"You've…" He ran those facts and came to a staggering conclusion. "You've been…?"  
  
"Planning this for several months? Oh, yes. You're certainly worth it, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Well, yes, but…"  
  
"You came here tonight to get to know me, did you not?" Julian nodded, and Garak continued: "Well, you've just unearthed a major clue to my nature: I take the long view, and I believe that preparation constitutes nine tenths of success. And you must admit," he smiled fondly, looking Julian up and down, "that it  _does_  fit you wonderfully."  
  
"It  _is_  wonderful," Julian agreed, feeling himself blush again, absurdly touched by what he now recognized as a gift. "I… thank you, Garak." He laughed softly, almost wonderingly. "Nobody's ever crafted clothing especially for me before — well, not unless I paid them to do it, anyway."  
  
Garak reached across the table briefly, to touch the first two fingers of his left hand to the back of Julian's right. The contact was fleeting, but electric. "It looks exquisite on you — you have the perfect body to showcase such a slimming style. I assure you, it was — and is — my pleasure."  
  
They finished the last of their desserts in silence, Julian smiling slightly the while, basking in the glow of a pleasure both simple and ineffably complex. When they'd both set down their spoons, having finished almost in unison, he looked up and saw that Garak was regarding him with a solemn expression, seeming to read every detail of his posture.  
  
"Did you enjoy your dinner?" he asked softly.  
  
Julian nodded. "Oh, yes. Both the food and the company were superb."  
  
"And have you had enough wine?"  
  
Julian picked up his glass, which had a mouthful left in the bottom, and drank it down, then set down the glass. "It was delicious, but I'd better not have any more. I want my head to be clear." He met Garak's gaze directly. "For what's to come."  
  
Garak nodded. "And what that will be," he explained, "is entirely up to you. We've had a lovely evening — I can't think of any recent occasion when I've enjoyed a conversation more, and your beauty has added a charming glow to everything that's passed between us. However, I don't want you to feel that you're obligated to —"  
  
"Garak," he said, and the Cardassian paused, looking at him curiously. "Are you going to keep talking all night, or are you going to take me to bed?"  
  
For a long moment they simply gazed at each other, the heat that had been steadily growing between them swelling to overt tension, as lambent as the candlelight.  
  
"Are you sure, Julian?" Garak asked quietly. "Quite sure?"  
  
Julian let himself consider that question for a split second: did he really want to take the concrete physical step of letting this man touch him again, and kiss him, and more than that, undress him and lay hands on the most secret parts of him? Did he really intend to let himself be used the way women were used, pressed to a mattress beneath that stocky grey-scaled body? Was he going to become an Urning — a pervert and a criminal — not only willingly, but eagerly and wholeheartedly?  
  
Gazing at Garak, he felt the pull of desire like the force that turns a compass to the north — and went with it.  
  
"If you don't," he responded, half-hooding his eyes to regard Garak with all the smouldering flirtatiousness he could command, "I think I might just go mad."  
  
After a heartbeat Garak picked up his napkin from his lap and set it on the table next to his empty plate. "Well, we certainly can't have that!" he said briskly, although his smile was languid and sensual. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you waiting a second longer than necessary. Lead on, dear boy!"  
  
Julian hastened to follow the older man's example, feeling the throb of his own pulse in his lips and his temples as Garak fell in beside him, laying one cool hand on the small of his back in a way that did not direct, but rather provided warm connection. As they headed up the steps toward the elevator he felt a little dizzy, the way he had on the porch swing when their first kiss had set them swaying — but now as then, he felt sure that Garak had no intention of letting either of them fall.  
  
[TO BE CONTINUED…]


End file.
